On the Truth of the Saviour
E’en John the Baptist did not know
Who Christ the Lord could be,
And bade his own disciples go
The strange event to see.
They said, Art thou the one of whom
’Twas written long before?
Is there another still to come,
Who will all things restore?
This is enough, without a name—
Go, tell him what is done;
Behold the feeble, weak and lame,
With strength rise up and run.
This is enough—the blind now see,
The dumb Hosannas sing;
Devils far from his presence flee,
As shades from morning’s wing.
See the distress’d, all bath’d in tears,
Prostrate before him fall;
Immanuel speaks, and Lazarus hears—
The dead obeys his call.
This is enough—the fig-tree dies,
And withers at his frown;
Nature her God must recognize,
And drop her flowery crown.
At his command the fish increase,
And loaves of barley swell—
Ye hungry eat, and hold your peace,
And find a remnant still.
At his command the water blushed,
And all was turned to wine,
And in redundance flowed afresh,
And owned its God divine.
Behold the storms at his rebuke,
All calm upon the sea—
How can we for another look,
When none can work as he?
This is enough—it must be God,
From whom the plagues are driven;
At whose command the mountains nod,
And all the Host of Heaven!
